Page 16 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

I smile, slow and coy, sliding to the very edge of my chair. “Preferences, Grant.” I slip one heel off, then the other, lining them neatly beside my chair. “Surely you have them.”

He watches warily. “What are you doing?”

I don’t answer. Not directly.

Instead, I lower myself—graceful and deliberate—onto my knees. The cool bite of the floor on my skin sends a pulse through me. I crawl toward him, letting my hips sway, my shoulders roll, every movement intentional.

Calculated seduction.

His eyes darken.

“Do you like to give or take?” I ask, voice a breath. “Do you like to control… or be controlled?”

He doesn’t move.

I reach his chair and settle back on my heels, knees spread just a little too wide. The stretch of my pencil skirt strains, so I slowly push the fabric up, inch by inch, until it clears the tops of my thighs. I know what he can see now.

Just the hint of bare pussy. No lace. No barrier.

His gaze drops—finally.

And stays.

His jaw is tight when he runs his tongue along his bottom lip. His hands are gripping the arms of his chair like he’s clinging to his control.

And I love that. Because I’m about to take it from him.

I let my hands glide up the insides of his thighs, starting at the knees and working higher, massaging as I go. Slow, teasing circles. My thumbs drag just shy of his groin, pressing into the firm muscle there, careful not to rush.

“I wonder,” I murmur, eyes still locked on his, “if you’d like to tell me what to do. Where to put my mouth. How soft. How deep.”

His breathing changes—sharper now, tight in his chest. He’s getting hard. I feel the shift. The heat of him, the shape forming beneath the fabric. But it’s not just arousal I see in his eyes.

It’s discomfort.

He doesn’t want to be worshipped. Doesn’t want a pretty little thing on her knees, waiting for instruction.

So, I shift.

My smile curves inward, knowing. I rise—slowly, smoothly—and trail my fingers up his arm, across the crisp line of his chest, then down again, letting my palm drift across the bulge in his pants.

“You wouldn’t like that,” I say, voice low, circling behind him. “You don’t want to command.”

I lean in, letting my breath trace the shell of his ear as I wrap my hand around his cock—firm and aching beneath his slacks. I squeeze, just enough to pull a sound from him. He exhales, a heavy appreciative breath, his body betraying what his words never could.

“You want to be broken open,” I whisper, stroking him now, slow and possessive. “You want someone to take the reins. To make the decisions for you. To give you rules so you can feel what it’s like to let go.”

His hips twitch. His cock jerks in my hand.

“You want to be taken apart by someone who isn’t afraid of what they’ll find when they do.”

I keep stroking, using the pad of my thumb to tease the head through the fabric. His head falls back, lips parting slightly—fighting it and failing.

Then I stop.

Pulling away like nothing happened, I straighten.

“Give me the water.”

He fumbles a second before he grabs it, like a man starved for orders. Just like I thought.

I take it with a slow smile, sipping it without breaking eye contact.

When I’m done, I give it back, and my hand trails down again. This time, I don’t toy. I take.

My fingers close around him once more—hot, thick, needy.

I lean in, voice just above a whisper.

“Good boy.”

He groans.

Not a quiet one. Not subtle.

A deep, involuntary sound that rips from his chest and coils straight into my core. His hands clamp tight around the carved wooden arms of his chair. Eyes closed. Jaw slack. He looks undone.

I keep stroking him—slow, precise—watching the tension ripple through him like a live wire straining against itself.

“I know what you want,” I purr, voice velvet-wrapped sin. “You want strong hands on you. On your cock. You want to feel someone in control… someone who doesn’t let you hide.”

His hips lift slightly, syncing with my rhythm. His body answers before he can lie with his mouth.

“You want to be on your knees,” I whisper against his temple. “Begging. Submitting. Taking what you’re given.”

His breath hitches.

I press closer, my grip tightening, my strokes faster now. “Tell me something, Grant. Ever sucked a cock before?”

His eyes flash open, but he doesn’t stop me. He can’t. “No.”

“But you want to.” It’s not a question. A confirmation.

“No.”

“Liar.” I continue, voice like silk against steel. “You want to. You want to be on your knees, run your tongue up the shaft of a hard dick, and feel every vein pulse against it.”

His chest is rising faster now, each breath ragged and raw. “Fuck.”

“You want to take it deep. Feel it hit the back of your throat. Gag around it. Suck like the filthy little slut you’re too scared to admit you are.”

He grits his teeth. “No.”

I clench my hand tighter around him. Stroke deeper.

“And I know whose cock you want to choke on.”

“No.”

“Who it is that you want to come down your throat while you milk every drop from him.”

“You’re wrong.” He’s so breathless, he’s panting in desperation.

The fabric of his pants is wet with pre-cum, and he’s moving with me now, chasing the release.

But he won’t get it.

“I don’t think I am wrong.”

I wait until he’s just there—just there—right at the edge, panting like a man seconds from drowning in his own desire.

And then I stop.

He bucks forward with a choked, desperate sound. His eyes shoot open, confusion and betrayal flashing across them.

I lean down, my lips brushing his ear as I whisper, low and lethal:

“You’re a liar, Grant. And you’ll only come when you admit who you want to come for.”

And I walk out, leaving him aching and alone.